Bagging my 25th Highpoint

HOOSIER HILL-INDIANA OCTOBER 7, 2011 Three days after I bagged the high point of Ohio, I added Hoosier Hill to my list of high points. Hoosier Hill was my 25th High Point. It took me fourteen years to reach the halfway mark of the 50 states but it was worth it. I was staying in Indianapolis so to get there I would have to backtrack eastward via the I-70 freeway to exit 153 in Indiana. Friday, October 7 dawned sunny and hot. The going was a little slow because there was construction where the I-495 beltway meets the I-70 but I slithered through and was soon on open road. The Indiana countryside passed swiftly by as I was jamming to my favorite songs on CD. No special album just a compilation of hits I adored. It took me 80 minutes to get to exit 153. You go up the ramp and make the left turn onto State Route 227, a two-lane blacktop that meanders and undulates for ten miles through rustic Hoosier towns like Middleboro, Whitewater, and Bethel. I had the windows down and had switched off the music. What I beheld was a golden, silent land lined with cornfields and soybeans. Little brick churches emerged to my left or to my right. I saw a stray cemetery. Mostly, though, the land was quiet. There were very few cars on the road. Once I passed through Bethel, I had my eyes peeled out for County-Line Road as the Holmes guidebook advised but when I got there I saw that the name of the road was changed to “1100 S” instead but there was a sign on the road which said “Indiana Hi-Point this way” so I knew I was on the right track. I made the left turn and soon Elliott Road emerged with another sign leading to the high point. It was an anticlimax. There was a copse of woods to the right and suddenly a gravel driveway appeared and I turned right into it and there it was in the clearing in the copse of woods. I was totally alone. No one was stirring around. It was little after 10:00AM and the day was hot and a little humid. I was in no rush. I whipped out my camera and took pictures of everything. I felt an exhilaration; a feeling of appreciation for this quiet nook in the state of Indiana. I beheld Middle America in its rustic splendor. I was seeing an America I had never seen before. In New Jersey one has to go a long way before you enter real country. Suburbia is everywhere. In the Midwest the country begins immediately where the city ends. I had Hoosier Hill all to myself during the forty minutes I stayed there. There is a picnic table, chair, summit register, summit cairn and the commemorative rock that adorns the summit. I saw a flag left by police officers there to commemorate their cause. I performed my usual summit rituals: the trinity of prayers, the picture of me holding the U.S. and Indiana state flags, the usual gag shots. I relaxed and composed my notes for this report. There was a gentle breeze that filtered through the canopy of trees that covered the high point. At one point it blew some of my notes away and I had to scramble to recover them. And when all was done I took one last look around, got in my car, and drove silently back the way I came. I want to thank Candance Lasco and Tom Yost for treating me to breakfast my last day in Indiana. Thank you it was real! God willing and if the world doesn’t come to an end I hope to bag three more highpoints in late May: North Carolina, South Carolina, and Tennessee when I vacation in Asheville, North Carolina. See you at the high points!

Trip Report: Bagging my 24th High Point

CAMPBELL HILL-OHIO OCTOBER 4, 2011 The bagging my 24th highpoint was part of a Midwest driving tour I had been planning on for years. I always wanted to tour the Midwest: visit the state capitols of Ohio and Indiana, see the sites, and bag their highpoints in the process. It took me two days to reach Columbus, Ohio but there was no rush to bag the highpoints just yet. The weather when I got to Columbus was not good and I wanted some sunshine when I did visit Campbell Hill. I got half my wish. Tuesday, October 4, 2011 dawned grey, cloudy, and overcast but not rainy. I was staying at the Red Roof Inn in Hilliard (a suburb west of Columbus). After breakfast and getting washed and dressed (regular clothes no hiking gear) I was on the road a little after 9:00AM. It’s almost an hour drive to Bellefontaine (where Campbell Hill is located). I took 270 North to Route 33 and stayed on 33 all the way to Bellefontaine. The drive was anticlimactic. I passed the time by listening to one of my favorite CDs of all time: World Party’s Goodbye Jumbo (if I was stranded on a desert island and was allowed ten CDs to listen to that would be one of them). While Karl Wallinger wailed in the background I absorbed the Ohio countryside. Ohio is so different from where I live in Southern New Jersey. It doesn’t have the suburbia that the Eastern States have. Where I was driving the country begins where the city ends. There was no in-between. All I saw were cornfields in various states of harvest. No one was really out and about. I was struck by the starkness of the terrain; the absence of elevation; everything sticks out acutely because there is nothing really big (save for silos) to overshadow it. The terrain itself was quite flat with only minor undulations, bumps, and bruises. The fall colors were out already. I discerned yellows and oranges with only a few reds. When the exit for Route 540 came up (signaling where I would turn to go to Campbell Hill) the CD had already finished. In less than a minute I was on 540 and knew I was at the right place. There are hi-point signs all over the area. There is a hi-point church, hi-point offices, and hi-point facilities everywhere. The school loomed large to my right and I turned into the parking lot; my only concern being where to find a parking space. The visitor’s parking lot is at the rear of the school. You make a loop and park your car. It was a weekday and school was in session. I took more time taking pictures of everything that moved around Campbell than it took for me to actually reach the high point. You can see Campbell from the parking lot. You just walk up the loop road to the top and you see the area with the brick walkway, the summit register, and the flag poles. I took more pictures; left my spoor on the summit register; picked up a certificate which states that I stood atop Campbell Hill; and relaxed on the two park benches which face each other atop the hill. The sun still hadn’t come out but I was busy taking more and more pictures: panoramic shots and gag shots. It was nice to bag an easy one after the rough times I had at Maine and Nevada. I wanted to take it easy a little bit and smell the roses. No one was with me atop the summit. The only activity was the groundskeeper mowing the lawn. I walked down and around the base of the hill. When I had gotten all I could get from the experience I used the bathroom at the school and left Campbell Hill around 11:00AM. I didn’t return to Columbus instead I took State Road 68 south to the I-70 and Dayton, Ohio where I spent a glorious afternoon at the Air Force Museum at Wright-Patterson AFB. If you’re mad for vintage airplanes then Wright-Patterson is an absolute must visit. Their airplane collection is larger than the Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC. I spent the entire afternoon taking picture after picture of World War Two, Korean War, Vietnam war, and experimental aircraft. It was a truly wonderful experience and was a brilliant end to a brilliant day. Oh yes, if you’re staying in Columbus, Ohio, eat at Spageddie’s in Hilliard, a suburb of Columbus. The veal is delicious. See you at the High Points!

Trip Report of my 23rd High Point

DRISKILL MOUNTAIN-LOUSIANA
MAY 5, 2011

When I started my highpointing career in 1997 I had long envisioned bagging Driskill Mountain in Louisiana as being part of a week’s vacation trip to Vicksburg, Mississippi. And so during the first week of May when I was vacationing in Vicksburg that’s exactly what I did.

Thursday, May 5 was sunny, cloudless, and wonderful. My hotel was right on I-20 and the Mississippi River was less than a minute away.

I left my motel at 9:00AM and was in Louisiana only minutes later. Given the lowness of the terrain, it was pure highway for two hours.

Traffic was light to moderate with only a few cars and trucks on the way. I kept going west while rocking at full volume to a favorite CD compilation I made.

Mostly I absorbed the Louisiana landscape. This was only the second time in my life I had been to the Pelican state. Last time was in 1993 when I spent a joyous and creative and spiritual week in New Orleans. Now I was far north of the Crescent City.

What you see while driving on the I-20 is green; dark green. Grass, swamp, trees. Just green and more green…and more green.

You would see houses and farms but what I saw looked tired and maybe a little depressed.

It wasn’t the same landscape I saw in 1993 when I day-tripped from New Orleans to Oak Alley Plantation. What I saw that time was a stunning tableau of dire Third World poverty: shanty towns, shotgun shacks, African-Americans living in squalid, sullen conditions. If you’ve ever watched the scenes in the movie Easy Rider where Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, and Jack Nicholson enter Louisiana on their way to Mardi Gras you will understand what I mean.

What I saw in 2011 was grim Cajun country: more borderline poverty or perhaps more well-concealed?

I got off at Exit 77 and made my way southwest to Zion church and Driskill Mountain.

The area is heavily wooded and dotted with small ponds or sandy marshes.

The sunlight filtered through the trees and one could see people moving their lawns.

Little country churches were nestled along the road side.

It took what seemed to me a while to find Zion church (although in reality it wasn’t that long).

I was never lost and I knew I was getting closer.

You find Zion church on the right when you come around a bend. The turn off is sudden and you find yourself parked underneath a lovely shade tree in front of the church.

The place was deserted. The church itself was locked up and all I could see was an outhouse in despicable condition.

I organized my shoulder bag and began the hike to the summit of Driskill Mountain.

It takes 20 minutes and you are enveloped by the woods. Sunlight flickered through the green canopy but mostly I was shrouded by the shade (for which I was thankful because the day had become warmer than I expected).

You make the right hand turn for the summit and then you wind around a little bit. The trail was well-marked and obvious to follow.

You ascend gradually and then suddenly you enter a clearing and there it is: a bench, the kiosk and memorial to the late Jack Longacre (founder of the Highpointers Club) and the summit cairn.

I did the now familiar summit rituals. I felt a little giddy. I had failed last year trying to bag Katahdin in Maine but I felt good to be back in the game again bagging Driskill. I had the whole highpoint to myself during the entire time I was there.

I took my pictures; offered my prayers of thanks; and relaxed, savoring the silence and the solitude.

I spent 20 minutes atop Driskill and then made my way back down. When I got back to the car, I took some time at the picnic area of the church composing my notes for this report. It was a little after noon when I left.

I stopped for a snack and a pit stop at this plaza on the I-20.

Earlier in this report I mentioned before I was in Cajun country. No further proof of that was needed when I was talking to the desk attendant. I exchanged pleasantries with him and couldn’t understand a word he said and I don’t mean that condescendingly.

Cajun talk is a lot like trying to talk with a mouth full of cotton.

And yet Southern hospitality was everywhere and I enjoyed that aspect of the trip very, very much.

If you ever are in Vicksburg and are looking for a place to eat, try the Trailside Café. The combined pork and meat platter is to die for. Barbecue at its best.

Song and the story behind the Song "Lighthouse Keeper"

While going through some old computer files, I came across some old songs of mine which I had composed decades ago.

I found this chestnut I wrote around Christmas time 2001. At the time I was working on a lighthouse exhibit where I worked so during the process of putting the exhibit together I managed to learn the terminology that goes along with lighthouses: daymarks, aerobeacons, etc.

I incorporated those terms into the lyrics and came out with this gem. It's one of my faves. Imagine a slow acoustic melody with a harp and an organ being while female voices sing harmony in the background.

The Lighthouse Keeper

I. First Verse
There is a lighthouse in the harbor
Built on piles made of metal
Screwed into rocks laid at the Creation
Without a land-bound connection
It is a beacon of hope and protection
A commitment to mariner’s safety
And the pursuit of life and liberty
An object of faith and purpose
It offers light of power and focus

It is run by a lonesome keeper
Who signed up young and desperate
To escape a life that offered no answers
To questions posed by angry passers-by
He bakes bread cold and unleavened
His hours are 24/7 and the pay is low but he’s not in this for profit
He does his duty for the sake of others
For he answers to no one but himself

Chorus:
And if you should enter the harbor
And, by chance, behold his light?
Would you kindly pay him a visit?
And offer him company and comfort?
And when he repays you in measure
It will certainly do you no harm
To enjoy the pleasure of his presence
And savor the warmth of being in his loving arms

II. Second Verse
The lighthouse is a multi-sided structure
Built in the days of Queen Victoria
It has endured decades of harsh weather
Its daymarks are bright and cheerful
They might even make you laugh
But you know you cannot ignore them
They tell you precisely where you are
At night, the aerobeacon signals “love”
And the fog bell chimes that land is nigh

It is run by a lonesome keeper
Who signed up young and desperate
He has lived a life of service
Sad mornings watching the Morning Star
But he wants some pleasure in his life
The caress of a woman’s fingers
The laughter of playing children
The growth of knowledge and family
The joy of answering to the one he loves

Chorus:
And if you should enter the harbor
And, by chance, behold his light?
Would you kindly pay him a visit?
And offer him company and comfort?
And when he repays you in measure
It will certainly do you no harm
To enjoy the pleasure of his presence
And savor the warmth of being in his loving arms

III. Third Verse
The sea spawns a sailing vessel
That is manned by a battered woman
The wind blows through its riggings
She has been battered by storms unforgiving
She needs a harbor of refuge, a breakwater for a shelter
Where the boat can repair and re-provision
And its captain can find peace and succor
But that has so far eluded her and that is sad
The lighthouse beckons and it yearns to receive her

It is run by a lonesome keeper
Who signed up young and desperate
He keeps an eye out for boats in trouble
And always signals for help on the double
But, in his heart, there is something missing
Or could it be that special someone?
He loses himself in his labor
But he cannot leave the harbor
Meanwhile he guides the battered vessel to his side

Chorus:
And if you should enter the harbor
And, by chance, behold his light?
Would you kindly pay him a visit?
And offer him company and comfort?
And when he repays you in measure
It will certainly do you no harm
To enjoy the pleasure of his presence
And savor the warmth of being in his loving arms

IV. Fourth Verse
There are feelings that come from thanking
There are moments that defy description
She adds melody to his rhythm
He brings madness to her method
There are words that need not be spoken
It is left to flesh and bones to form them
A colloquy that sings a newly won freedom
Now is always the best time to start
What follows comes from the common heart

Chorus:
And if you should enter the harbor
And, by chance, behold his light?
Would you kindly pay him a visit?
And offer him company and comfort?
And when he repays you in measure
It will certainly do you no harm
To enjoy the pleasure of his presence
And savor the warmth of being in his loving arms

© 12/23/2001 by Matthew DiBiase

The Mantle of Ronald Reagan

In Scripture in the Book of II Kings chapter two the last thing the prophet Elijah did as he ascended into heaven on a chariot of fire was to remove his mantle and throw it at the feet of his successor the prophet Elisha. Elisha took up Elijah’s mantle and carried on the great work that Elijah had done for the children of Israel.

In January 1989 when the late Ronald Reagan ended his Presidency and flew off into the political sunset he threw his mantle at the feet of his political successors in the Republican Party. Since that time the struggle for the mantle of Ronald Reagan has consumed the G.O.P. and has in many ways torn asunder the great electoral coalition that Reagan constructed in the 1980s.

Reagan in 1980 and 1984 harnessed his genius for Presidential campaigning (a genius in my opinion that bordered on virtuosity—Reagan and FDR in my opinion were the two greatest Presidential campaigners in American political history) to win two enormous landslides which gave him the mandate to alter the American socio-political landscape; make American conservatism a viable and dominant force in G.O.P. politics; while attaining an exalted status that became the closest thing to a cult of personality never before seen in American politics. (Not even the cult-like status JFK received after his assassination equals the apotheosis Reagan achieved. JFK’s luster dimmed in the 1980s with the revelations of his mistresses, his flirtations with organized crime, and the concealment of his shaky medical history. No such debunking has even remotely occurred with Reagan—which in itself is a phenomenon worth examining. Someone could write one heck of a doctoral dissertation on the Reagan cult of personality that endures to this day in America).

But when it all ended for Reagan in 1989 there emerged a schism in the Republican Party: the G.O.P. became half-Reagan and half-Bush. The Bush wing triumphed in 1988 and in 2000 and 2004 but with disastrous results for the country (and the party itself). The failures of George H.W. Bush led conservatives to sit on their hands in 1992 and allow Bill Clinton to win the Presidency. The even greater failures of George W. Bush led to Barack Obama’s overwhelming win in 2008.

Among the many failures of the George W. Bush Presidency was Bush’s naked attempt at supplanting Ronald Reagan as the chief demigod of American conservatism. When you look at the younger Bush Administration’s domestic and foreign policy initiatives it is painfully obvious that Bush strove—and failed—to topple Reagan from his plinth.

The fact that Bush’s tax cuts were larger than Reagan’s; the fact that Bush was more ardent at imposing his social conservatism on America than Reagan did in the 1980s; the fact that his foreign policy was infinitely more muscular—and bloodier—than Reagan’s was in my mind a desperate attempt by Bush to pose himself as a greater Commander-in-Chief than Reagan was (which he wasn’t); all these acts are compelling evidence of Bush’s concealed intentions and the fact that Bush failed in his intent is borne out in the 2008 Republican Presidential race when all the G.O.P. candidates repeatedly invoked the spirit of the late Ronald Reagan instead of the spirit of George W. Bush—a rather fitting repudiation if there ever was one.

The 1996 candidacy of Bob Dole was not a triumph of the Reagan wing of the party. Although Dole would probably disagree with this, his nomination in 1996 was the last gasp of the old Eisenhower-Nixon-Ford wing of the G.O.P. that was supplanted by Reagan in 1980. John McCain’s failed presidential bid in 2000 and his successful nomination in 2008 were part of the Reagan wing’s struggle with the Bush wing for the heart and soul of the Republican Party.

Today the G.O.P. is no longer half-Reagan half-Bush. The Party has become a three-way dance between the Reagan, Bush, and the Tea Party faction that has now come to fore. This fragmentation bodes ill for the G.O.P. despite its recapture of the House last November. One of the major reasons why Ronald Reagan triumphed politically in the 1980s was due to the boundless faith and discipline of his followers. That faith and discipline was in response to Reagan’s personal faith, loyalty, and commitment to the Republican Party as a whole and its conservative ideals. Under Ronald Reagan the G.O.P. was a singular, committed, effective monolithic presence. When Reagan yielded the Presidency in 1989 that discipline and faith was frittered away by the actions, inactions, and selfishness of his successors.

If Reagan were alive today I suspect he would look askance and have private reservations about the lack of discipline shown by the Tea Party faction and the lack of cohesion within the G.O.P. itself.

As of today the mantle of Ronald Reagan remains……….unclaimed and I suspect that it will always be so.

Even though there will be a future Republican President who will invoke the spirit of Ronald Reagan I suspect that the next Republican President will not come from the Reagan or the Bush or the Tea Party factions of the party but will instead unify and remake the Party in his or her own image (just like Reagan did in 1980).

In short not a return to 1980 but instead a new beginning for a new conservatism in 21st century America. And yet the question that remains is whether a new conservatism and a new conservative President will be able to overcome the problems and dilemmas that sap our economic, spiritual, and moral resources?

That is a question that can only be answered by time itself and by the next conservative President who occupies the Oval Office.

It was fifty years ago today...

Fifty years ago today a football game was played. It wasn’t any ordinary football game. No NFL championship game can ever be ordinary but when we look back at it now after a half-century of change in the way NFL football is played the 1960 NFL championship game takes on an antique quality; it becomes a black and white snapshot of an era of American society and sports history that we look back with an air of amused nostalgia.

By 1960 the NFL had finished its 40th season of operations. The league consisted of only thirteen teams (the season before there were only twelve but in 1960 the Dallas Cowboys had joined the NFL as an expansion team). The regular season was only twelve games long (that’s why the NFL championship game was played the day after Christmas). Indeed the following season the NFL would expand further—adding the Minnesota Vikings and increase the regular season schedule to fourteen games.

The NFL was expanding because it was facing a threat in the rival American Football League. Throughout the 1960s the two leagues would compete for talent before agreeing to merge in 1966 with the actual merger taking place in 1970. Pro football was growing up but in 1960 the game and the league still retained some of it antiquated aspects.

The 1960 NFL championship game was played in the afternoon like a regular season game instead of during primetime on TV which is where the Super Bowl is played now. If a team could not sell out it stadium on game day games could still be blacked out on local TV.

The NFL in 1960 was still predominately a white man’s game. The two teams that played that day: the Philadelphia Eagles and the Green Bay Packers, the Eagles had about five or six African-American players on its 33-man roster (today’s NFL teams have 53 man rosters and the vast majority of its players are African-American). The Packers I believe had a few more African-American players. In 1960 the Washington Redskins were the only NFL team which didn’t have an African-American player on its roster. (The following season they would integrate under pressure from the Kennedy Administration).

Small rosters required that players do double duty on the playing field. Eagles quarterback Norm Van Brocklin not only took the snaps he also did the punting. Eagles tight end Bobby Walston not only blocked and caught passes, he also did the place-kicking too. Green Bay Packers running back Paul Hornung scored a record 176 points during the 1960 season because not only was he was running and catching touchdowns he was also kicking field goals and extra-points. His teammate Max McGee not only caught passes he also punted as well.

Even place-kicking back in 1960 was not the specialized art it is today. There were no soccer-style kickers who could ram it through the uprights at fifty yards. Place-kicking was straight-ahead only and even then it was an inexact science. Some teams had two place-kickers: one for short-range field goals and extra-points and another for long-distance field goal kicking.

Another aspect of having only 33 men on a roster was that when players got hurt it meant that some players would have to play offense and defense.

The 1960 NFL championship game is famous because Chuck Bednarik was one of the last NFL players to do double-duty during a game. It began during the fifth week of the regular season when two Eagles linebackers were injured during a game with the Cleveland Browns. Eagles legend Chuck Bednarik who was only playing center at the time was called up by Eagles head coach Buck Shaw to play linebacker as well. Bednarik did so and, in so doing, helped improve the Eagles defense while taking on a mythological aura that would later earn him a berth in the Pro Football Hall-of-Fame.

The Philadelphia Eagles team that played in the 1960 NFL championship game did not get there by a fluke. They were a talented team that balanced veteran stars with young quality players. Norm Van Brocklin and Chuck Bednarik were established All-Pros and future hall-of-famers. Football historian Sean Lahman ranks Van Brocklin the 14th greatest quarterback that ever played the game while Bednarik ranks 25th as a linebacker in Lahman’s ratings. Norm Van Brocklin was such a great quarterback that future NFL hall-of-fame quarterback Sonny Jurgenson was forced to sit on the bench for three years as Van Brocklin’s back-up.

The Eagles had a superb receiving corps. Split End Pete Retzlaff was Van Brocklin’s favorite target in short-yardage situations. Later in his career he would move to tight-end and become the fifth-greatest tight end according to Sean Lahman’s ratings. Flanker Tommy McDonald was a pint-sized speedster with rabbit-like moves. He was the Eagles deep-threat. In the 1960 NFL championship McDonald caught a 35-yard touchdown pass from Van Brocklin that gave the Eagles a 7-6 lead in the second quarter.

The Eagles had a young running back named Ted Dean who had loads of potential but whose playing career was later cut short due to major injury but Dean made two key plays in the championship game. Late in the fourth quarter Ted Dean ran back a kickoff 58 yards and during the ensuing scoring drive would score the game-winning touchdown on a five yard run (with a key block thrown in by center Chuck Bednarik). Another fine running back was Timmy Brown who was one of the finest kick returners in the history of the game.

On defense linebacker Maxie Baughan was one of the smartest linebackers ever to play the game. The Eagles secondary had talented men like Tom Brookshier and Don Burroughs.

They were led by a wizened genial old man named Lawrence “Buck” Shaw. Shaw was a low-key father-figure whose worst oath was “Aw shucks!” and yet Shaw brilliantly mixed his veterans with his young players to make the Eagles contenders.

The team they face the Green Bay Packers were about to write a chapter in football history themselves. This was the first NFL post-season appearance for the Packers since 1944 and they were led by their relatively new head coach named Vince Lombardi.
Lombardi and the Packers would dominate the 1960s but on this day in 1960 that was all in the future. The Packers talent was already there: Bart Starr, Jim Taylor, and Paul Hornung in the backfield; Max McGee at wide receiver; Forrest Gregg, Jerry Kramer, Fuzzy Thurston, and Jim Ringo on the offensive line; Willie Davis, Henry Jordan, and Ray Nitschke, and Willie Wood on defense. Future legends and immortals all but this was their first ever taste of the pressure cooker atmosphere that is NFL championship football.

The game itself was a rather crude affair. The Eagles first offensive play from scrimmage results in a Green Bay interception. Four times the Packers drive deep into Eagle territory but the Eagles defense while bending never breaks. The Packers get only two field goals and twice fail to convert on fourth-down situations. (After the game Vince Lombardi blamed himself for the Packers defeat citing the two failed fourth-down conversions as the main reason. He told the press that if he had ordered Paul Hornung to kick instead going for it, the Packers would have had two more field goals—and the game).

The Eagles offense is inconsistent. Norm Van Brocklin only completes nine of twenty passes yet gains more yards passing than Bart Starr does. The touchdown pass to Tommy McDonald was the biggest pass of the day for Norm. Still the Eagles only get ninety-nine yards rushing and commit three turnovers.

Still it is the Eagles that make the big plays: the McDonald TD pass and the Ted Dean kick return. The Packers come up empty even though they have a potent running game. Early in the fourth quarter they regain the lead on a Max McGee touchdown pass but when Ted Dean scores in the offensive series that follows it the Eagles have a 17-13 lead when the Packers make their final drive.

When it all ended with Chuck Bednarik making an open-field tackle of Jim Taylor at the Eagles nine yard line with the clock running out the Eagles became NFL champions and the Green Bay Packers would suffer the only post-season loss during the coaching reign of the immortal Vince Lombardi. Lombardi and the Packers would learn vital lessons from this defeat and would emerge far stronger and far tougher in future post-season appearances to come.

For Buck Shaw and Norm Van Brocklin this was the last hurrah. Buck Shaw retired from coaching. Van Brocklin quit his playing career and hoped to succeed Shaw as Eagles head coach. He was not chosen and so he became the head coach of the expansion Minnesota Vikings and later the Atlanta Falcons.

Bednarik kept playing for two more seasons and made it to the hall-of-fame as did Van Brocklin and McDonald and Retzlaff too. Tom Brookshier’s playing career ended the following season and he became an NFL broadcaster. Sonny Jurgenson took over as the Eagles starting quarterback before being traded to Washington in 1964 (a sad day for the Philadelphia bartenders).

And so that football game played on December 26, 1960 was not only a game it was also the final chapter of an era.

The game was never going to be the same again—and neither would America.

Secession then and the new Civil War now

One hundred and fifty years ago today the state of South Carolina seceded from the Union thus putting into motion a chain of events which culminated in four of the bloodiest years in American history. There was no debate at all among the 170 delegates who assembled in Charleston, South Carolina to discuss the matter. (The reason why the secession convention met in Charleston instead of the state capitol in Columbia was because of a smallpox outbreak was taking place there in Columbia at the time). The ordinance of secession passed unanimously and was immediately followed by great public celebrations.

If you visit Charleston, South Carolina today (and I recommend that you should because it is a very quaint and beautiful Southern city) you will find when you visit many of the historic homes and mansions there a copy of the ordinance of secession signed by an ancestor of the person who once owned the home. New Englanders liked to boast about how their ancestors signed the Mayflower Compact. South Carolinians like to boast about their ancestors signed the ordinance of secession.

In the months that followed ten other Southern states followed suit. Secession took on many forms. Some states held special conventions to secede. Most states were content to let their state legislatures do the work. A few others coupled state legislative action with plebiscites which allowed voters to add their voices to the question.

Still the act of secession was not without internal division. Just because eleven Southern states seceded didn’t mean every resident in those states wholeheartedly supported the act. There were dissenting voices. Historian Eric Foner in his landmark book on Reconstruction devotes a sub-chapter in his book in discussing Southern Unionism. Opposition to secession and the newly formed Confederate States of America flourished in Western Virginia, Eastern Tennessee, Western North Carolina, Northern Alabama and Georgia and in the Ozark Mountain region of Arkansas and Missouri. Even in Texas there were pockets of pro-Union sentiment. Every Confederate state except for South Carolina contributed volunteers to the Union cause.

My own maternal ancestors, the Heatherlys, were living examples of this. The Heatherlys of Eastern Tennessee fought in the Union Army (where they were called Tennessee Tories). Two members of the Heatherly family of Cullman County, Alabama fought in the Union Cavalry (where they were called Mossbacks). The younger brother of my maternal great-great-great-great grandfather Aaron Heatherly (Moses Heatherly) first joined the Confederate Army and fought with Jeb Stuart before deserting to join the Union army in 1864—Aaron who lost three sons in the Civil War never forgave his brother for what he did.

Secession had been percolating in the American crucible since the Revolution. The eternal question that vexed our Founding Fathers was: where did Federal power end and where did States Rights begin?

Up until 1860 there had been false starts. The Kentucky Resolutions of the late 1790s, the Nullification crisis of the 1830s, and the Compromises of 1820 and 1850 either ignited or tried to dowse the flames of secession.

When secession did come and with it Civil War the issue was decided not in legislative halls but on the battlefield. In many ways the Civil War was the second Constitutional Convention where the political future of our young country was written in the blood shed by 600,000 dead Americans.

What’s striking about the North’s reaction to secession was how passionate Unionists were about upholding the powers and forms of the government. In Ken Burns’ Civil War he quotes the famous Sullivan Ballou letter where Ballou wrote “I know how American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government…” and who could forget what Abraham Lincoln said in the Gettysburg Address, “and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

Today we mock, damn, and demonize our government.

Were we more naïve back then or have we become more foolish and obdurate now?

When we contemplate this anniversary we must also be aware that there is a Civil War going on in American today. Even though there are no bullets flying there is an ideological war going on inside this country and with it—a form of symbolic secession from the Union.

The founding fathers of secession of 1860 damned the Federal Government for what they saw as attacks upon their property (i.e. their slaves) and the rights of the individual states. Today Americans damn the government on a more individual basis. Discontent is rampant and no solutions are in sight.

What’s sad is that America has become just as much an ideological tinderbox now as we were back in 1860. Even though we might not erupt into armed conflict our nation is being torn asunder in the name of ideologies that really do not resolve our problems or our conflicts. Instead we fight one another merely for the sake of fighting and our nation continues to implode from within.

And in this Civil War there are no winners….

The Katahdin Mountain Trip Report

MOUNT KATAHDIN-MAINE
OCTOBER 8, 2010-UNSUCCESSFUL

In my thirteen years of high-pointing, I had bagged all the Northeastern states save for Maine. I had delayed going after Maine because I wanted to go after other highpoints but for this year, I decided to try my luck at the terminus of the Appalachian Trail.

My attempt was part of a larger trip which included visits to Acadia National Park and visiting some Maine lighthouses in and around the vicinity.

I got into Millinocket (which is base camp for many a hiker going along the Appalachian Trail) on Wednesday October 6 and made a quick trip to Baxter State Park to get info on how to reserve a slot in the Day Use Parking Lot at Katahdin Stream. The ranger at the gate gave me great info and when I returned to town, I went to Baxter State Park HQ to reserve my parking slot.

I didn’t go into this hike feeling very confident. My main concern was the weather. Reports throughout the week were not encouraging and I had only a two day window to climb the mountain. I was afraid I would not get a shot at the peak at all. The following day the 7th was dark, rainy, and depressing.

The weather for 8th (the day I would make my attempt) was only slightly better. It would be sunny in the morning but there was a threat of rain in the afternoon. I was determined to get as early a start as I could.

I woke up at 5:00AM on the 8th and quickly ate breakfast at the Appalachian Trail Café. Even at 5:00AM it was crowded, filled with truckers and hikers like me.

I was back at my hotel at 6:00AM and promptly suited up for the journey. In a few minutes I was on the road to the Togue Pond Entrance Gate at Baxter State Park. It’s a sixteen mile drive and it takes roughly 30 minutes to get to the Togue Pond Entrance Gate. After clearing the gate it’s a 7.7 mile drive to Katahdin Stream campground. It’s all dirt roads when you go inside Baxter State Park and the speed limit ranges from 10-20 MPH so it’s slow going all the way. I didn’t reach Katahdin Stream Campground until 7:00AM

The ranger on duty there said it was Class 3 conditions on the trail—meaning the trail was open but it wasn’t recommended you go above the tree line. The summit of Katahdin itself was shrouded in fog. Somehow I knew I would be unsuccessful with this attempt but decided to go as far as I could and hope against hope.

It was 7:30AM when I signed in at the register at the start of the trail. I wasn’t alone. A team of three other hikers (two male and one female) were with me. They wanted me to break trail and I did but rather quickly I lost them somewhere (they later told me they had stopped for coffee).

The first mile of the Hunt Trail (which is part of the Appalachian Trail) is gentle on the legs. You are enshrouded by the peak colors of autumn in a narrow tunnel of yellows, reds, and oranges; your footfalls softened by the black, moist soil; the only sound effects being the bass roar of Katahdin Stream and, later, Katahdin Falls.

The air was bracingly cool and I was glad to be bundled up in my L.L. Bean equipment. I was wearing layers and felt quite secure in my Gore-Tex cocoon.

My pace was moderate and I was in no rush. I passed the first mile marker and quickly afterwards crossed below the Katahdin Falls. Once you do that is when the going gets tougher and you encounter the rocks. I thought Mt. Marcy in Upstate New York was onerous but Marcy is a walk in the park compared with Katahdin.

The granite boulders at Katahdin are something to behold and they get more ominous the higher up you go.

I took my first rest break at 8:25AM and munched on a candy bar atop this moss-covered boulder right in the middle of the trail. I was shaded by the dense stands of trees and content to commune with the silence.

When I resumed hiking the trail narrowed even further and for the first time in my high-pointing career I was forced to wade through a stream for quite a ways. Just before you reach the boulder fields at the midway part of the trail, the trail is subject to considerable run-off of water as you go up and down. The soil was a black viscous mud and the rocks were sunk into it. Water flowed over my boots and I silently thanked God for the Gore-Tex linings.

It was slow-going and hard on the legs. The higher I went the steeper it became. The other hikers who accompanied me had passed me by earlier but I had caught up with them. I thought I was doing well in terms of my pace but when I came to the boulder field at the 2.8 mile mark, I was wondering what was going to come next. I knew it wouldn’t be easy but I was unprepared for the labyrinth which confronted me. I was thankful for the painted trail marks because if I had to blaze my own trail I would have failed miserably.

You spend your time looking for the paint marks and trying to find footholds and handholds. It requires hands free climbing. There are places where metal spikes are driven into the stone by necessity because without them you can neither go up or down. I had never done such technical climbing in my entire high-pointing career. Somehow though, I got through the tougher parts but I knew it would be tougher still when I would have to climb down. If I had had a helmet camera on me and my friends, relatives, and loved ones could see what I was doing, their collective hearts would have gone into their mouths.

It was in the boulder field that the hike swiftly went to hell.

The top of the mountain was shrouded in fog and the winds were blowing around 20-30 M.P.H. I had my balaclava on but there were times when the wind would blow the cloth over my eyes and I had to readjust it. A couple times I slightly bonked my head on the rocks but nothing serious. I never tripped or fell.

I took my second rest break near the bottom of the boulder field at 9:25AM. Removing my gloves to undo my pack was not easy. The temperature was definitely in the low 20’s at that elevation and I had to put my gloves back on or else risk them getting frozen.

It was during that second rest break that I got these weird thoughts in my head. I kept getting these visions of me falling to my death; of me slipping and breaking a leg or an arm or something else and being stranded on the trail, dying of exposure. I had never had such thoughts in my entire high-pointing career. It disturbed me. Once my break ended I resumed the ascent. The fog prevented me from gauging how much further I had to go before I reach the tablelands and the final approach to the summit.

If I had been very close I was determined to persevere regardless of the conditions but where was I? I wasn’t lost. I was on the trail and moving upward. It was the not knowing that was sapping my emotional strength. I was also worried about the descent because the boulder field would be infinitely tougher going down than going up. I would need lots of time to navigate this place. My prior calculation called for me to summit around 11:00AM and it was getting near to be 10:30AM. I had already passed the 3.2 mile mark painted on the rocks on the trail. By my calculation I had gone 3.3 or 3.4 miles on a 5.2 hike.

The wind was now really kicking up and it was blowing so loud you had to shout to be heard. The three hikers who had accompanied were ahead of me and on their way to the summit. Another man had passed me by as well.

At 3.4 miles I stopped and tried to discern how much further I had to go before reaching the tablelands. At times the fog would part and I could glimpse more and more boulders to be traversed and in a moment I realized I had a long, long way to go.

I was feeling at the end of my physical and emotional tether. My fears were magnifying.

At that moment, a voice inside my head said to me, “Are you ready to die?”

And before I could answer that devastating question, the voice asked me, “Is it worth your life?”

I stood amidst the boulders looked up at the dark rocky mass and realized that I would never ever climb Mt. Katahdin. I cried out, “I quit! I give up!”

I didn’t pause long. I knew I had a ton of work to do getting down this bloody mountain. It was 10:30AM when I decided to turn around.

For the next four hours I would be trying to descend.

Going down the boulder field took the longest time. I couldn’t make any mistakes. Any trip or fall could result in serious injury. I went at a tortoise like pace and paused frequently to eye up the footholds and handholds. When I got back to the parts of the boulder field which had the metal spikes, I did a lot of serious praying.

Amazingly while I was engrossed in my personal ordeal, there were hikers who were still going up the mountain despite the vile weather conditions. It was the worst example of summit fever I had ever seen. I told everyone and anyone who would listen that I was turning back. At least 3-4 hikers kept going up but four others agreed with me and started back down.

For me the hairiest part of the descent came at the bottom of the boulder field when you reach the last set of climbing spikes. I remember looking out over the ledge and seeing the sheer rock face and the narrow ledge below. I knew this was going to be scary and it was. I remember placing my feet carefully on both spikes and then shifting my body so I would descend downward like going down a ladder instead of sliding down on my butt. I remember hanging onto the bar for dear life while gingerly lowering my left foot onto the small stack of rocks within the cleft. When my left foot touched down, then I released my right foot from the climbing spike and lowered myself to the rocky ledge. I went only a small distance when I saw one of the hikers who were going down with me, trying to do what I did. I had to pause and coach her on where to place her feet. She did it like I did and got down safely.

Even after I cleared the boulder field, I could not relax. The rocky upper portions were fraught with danger. I couldn’t afford any slips or falls lest I suffer broken bones or other crippling injuries. Sometimes I eschewed dignity and slowly slid down the rocks on all fours to brace myself. It looked silly but it worked. I never slipped, tripped, or fell throughout the descent. Going down the stream bed on the trail was onerous because I was worried about my footing. Plus my boots were getting soaked and my feet were wet. Still I put one foot in front of the other and kept slogging downward.

I took rest breaks at 11:30 AM, 12:30PM and 1:45PM. The last rest break was the best one because I was below the storm clouds and the air was warmer and clearer. I could see the fall colors on the surrounding peaks and find peace amidst the madness above me.

I took pictures to preserve the experience.

After the last rest break, I crossed Katahdin Stream and the rocks gave way to soft earth. Every step brought me closer to safety and it was 2:30M when I signed out of the trail.

A lovely blonde-haired married woman was waiting anxiously by the register. Her husband was one of those who had gone up the trail and had passed me by on their way to the summit. I told her what happened to me and she became apprehensive when I told her how onerous the weather conditions were. I felt sorry for scaring her but I felt that I owed her the truth. There were others who were waiting for their loved ones to come down at Katahdin Stream campground. I spent twenty minutes at the parking lot discussing what happened to me. I left at 2:50 and cleared the Togue Gate at 3:15 and was back in Millinocket by 4:00PM.

When I look back at this hike I wonder to myself whether I could have made it if the weather conditions had been better.

I can’t answer that. In some roguish way I’m sort of grateful that the weather high up the mountain was bad because it gave me the perfect excuse to turn back.

This was my second high-pointing failure. My previous failure occurred in Nevada in September 2008 when during a reconnaissance of the Queen Mine approach to Boundary Peak, my SUV suffered a flat tire while descending down the gravel road which leads to the highway. I barely made it to the highway where I luckily was able to flag down a passing motorist who helped me change the flat and I was able to return to Bishop, California. That was not a real summit attempt but a reconnaissance.

Maine was my first failure during an actual summit attempt. In retrospect part of me feels I should have tried the Abol Trail instead of the Hunt Trail although later that night when I was having a drink at the Scootic Inn bar in Millinocket, a local told me that the Hunt Trail was the least technical climb of all the trails to Katahdin.

Will I return to Katahdin? I don’t know. It will be many years before I contemplate a return if ever.

Still I am grateful to God for delivering me from this ordeal. I am also grateful to my friends on Facebook who prayed for me during the hike itself. Your prayers were answered. Amen.

My next high-pointing journey will be easier (I hope). I will go after Driskill Mt. in Louisiana, all 535 feet of it in May 2011.

See you at the highpoints!

Contemplating our Greatest Day...and its aftermath

This day sixty-five years ago was the most powerful moment in American history. It was on this day, aboard the battleship U.S.S. Missouri the Japanese formally surrendered to the Allied powers thus bringing World War Two to a close.

I call this the most powerful moment in American history because it was on that day we had the greatest army; the greatest navy; and the greatest air force the world had ever seen. Those forces consisted of men and women who were part of what we call now the Greatest Generation were commanded by some of the most stellar figures in American Military history: Douglas MacArthur, Dwight Eisenhower, Curtis LeMay, Bill Halsey, Chester Nimitz, Raymond Spruance, Omar Bradley, and George Patton.

Not only were our armed forces superior in the quality of its personnel; it also had the finest weapons including the ultimate weapon which compelled the Japanese to surrender in the first place: the atomic bomb—which America was the sole possessor at that time.

Not only was our military might supreme, our home front too was at its peak in terms of power and productivity.

American industry was operating at full capacity. Unemployment was nil. Our moral authority was at its pinnacle. The American people had full faith in its President and its Congress.

Now, today, sixty-five years later our country can no longer make those claims.

Today, we struggle with financial, moral, and ethical bankruptcy. Unemployment is rampant. Faith in our elected leadership is nonexistent—and justifiably so in many places.

How did it happen?

It certainly didn’t come from the outside. One cannot blame the Russians, the Chinese, the North Vietnamese, the Taliban, or Al-Qaeda.

No, the decline came from within—just as it always does in the course of human events.

For all the wars America has fought since 1945 the greatest, costliest, and most damaging war our country has fought has been with itself. When you examine the course of American politics, economics, and ethics since 1945 the most apt metaphor to describe what has transpired since then is war.

When you look at our society today, we are a nation at war with itself; a war with no victory and no end; just the mindless and senseless continuation of our own self-defeating purpose. And as long as that self-defeating purpose exists in the fabric of American society then there is no hope of future progress—just the long tortoise-like crawl towards national self-destruction.

A Requiem for Robin Roberts

The death of Philadelphia Phillies legend Robin Roberts is a sad loss to Phillies fans everywhere. He may have been the greatest right-handed pitcher in Phillies history (it’s either Roberts or Grover Cleveland Alexander). No other Phillies right-hander ever won more games than Roberts did.

Roberts was not only a stalwart pitcher for the Phillies but he was one of the best pitchers in the National League in the 1950s. He won twenty or more games in six consecutive seasons. In 1952 he won 28 games. No other National League pitcher has equaled that since. Pittsburgh Pirates slugger Ralph Kiner said that Roberts was the toughest pitcher he ever faced.

Roberts won 286 games and lost 245. His winning percentage as a pitcher was .539% which was 33 points better than the teams he played for. That was the tragedy of Robin Roberts’ career. If Roberts had pitched for the New York Yankees or the Brooklyn Dodgers, he would definitely have won 300 games. Instead he toiled nineteen seasons for mediocre teams—a diamond in the rough. There are other great baseball pitchers who suffered the same fate. Nap Rucker for the Brooklyn Dodgers during the 1900s and 1910s; Washington Senators immortal Walter Johnson is another example.

Every fourth day the Phillies would give Roberts the ball and every fourth day he would take on the best pitchers of the other seven National League teams. (His head-to-head match-ups with Dodgers great Don Newcombe were epic battles). Sometimes Roberts didn’t pitch every fourth day. During the final week of the 1950 Season where the Phillies were vying with the Dodgers of the National League pennant, Roberts had to pitch three times in five days. Name a top pitcher today who would be willing to do that for his team?

Roberts was a class act on the mound. One of his flaws was that he gave up a lot of gopher balls. One reason for that was he never threw at batters. In an era where the purpose pitch was a vital tool in a major league’s pitcher’s arsenal, Roberts eschewed the bean-ball. That meant hitters could dig in on Roberts. Roberts was a class act off the field too. He was an ardent advocate for the Baseball Players’ Association and when baseball was integrating racially he was a positive presence to African-American players who became his teammates.

When we lose players like Robin Roberts we are losing something more. Roberts was the last vestige of an era of baseball where there were no steroids; no illegal drugs; no Astro-turf; no games interrupted so that a top rock and roll band can perform its newest hit single and other associated nonsense like that. We’re going to miss him.

Rest in peace.

Health Care: If You Can Keep It?

When contemplating the passage of the Obama Health Care Bill I am reminded of a story about the Constitutional Convention of 1787. The Convention had adjourned, the Constitution had been approved, the doors were opened and the delegates filed out into the streets of Philadelphia.

Benjamin Franklin was being carried out on his sedan chair when an anxious citizen ran up to him and asked, “Dr. Franklin, is it a republic or a monarchy?”

Franklin replied, “A republic, Sir, if you can keep it,” meaning that he and the other delegates had done the best they could to create a new form of government for the fledgling United States of America but it was now up to each and every American citizen to do the best they could by exercising the rights given unto them by this new constitution to ensure that the country remained a republic.

The same metaphor applies here to the Obama Health Care bill. The Obama Administration and the Democrats in Congress worked long and hard to create legislation to augment and improve the health care system in America. After a year’s worth of negotiation, amending, deal-making, compromises, political infighting, vitriolic debate, and parliamentary wizardry, a bill was passed. Now it is up to the American people to do their part to either make this landmark legislation work by exercising the options and rights granted unto them by this legislation or else allow it to be tortured on the gibbet of American political obloquy.

Those who cry out that the bill is an example of tyranny or else complain about the methods used by Democratic congressional leaders to get the bill passed err. The fact that the bill was watered down, amended, and substantively changed from the original concept proposed by the Obama Administration; the fact that G.O.P. congressional members were granted time to debate the issue and say their piece about the legislation, and try their best at blocking the legislation exposes the lie that tyranny was afoot.

Tyranny is the absence of debate, amendments, negotiations, and offers to the opposition to have their input in the process. If the Obama Administration is a genuine dictatorship then Universal Health Care would have been passed in its original form without any subsequent amendments.

Was the bill flawed as many of its opponents said during the debate? Of course it was. Name any legislation that isn’t flawed? Even the Constitution when submitted to the states in 1787 was a flawed document that needed a lot of fine-tuning during the next two hundred and twenty-three years of its existence. The nice thing about legislation in a democracy is that it is never etched in stone. Democracy allows lawmakers to amend, add, and subtract at will. As one CNN observer recently noted, every year will see the new law being amended and changed (just as you see changes in Social Security, Medicare, and tax laws). Democracy at its absolute best is a supremely flawed form of government. Those who seek perfection will only find disappointment. If legislators were to await perfection then no real work would ever get done.

And what about those who cry out that this legislation will bankrupt the country? The fact is America is already bankrupt and has been since 1983 when the country became a debtor nation instead of a creditor nation—a dark day in American economic history. Our present state of bankruptcy has been perpetuated by both the Republicans and Democrats alike. Will the health care bill add to the deficit? Of course it will. Expanding national health care coverage is not cheap and as for the criticism that it is fiscally irresponsible? I would like to say this: where was any talk about fiscal responsibility when the Bush Administration insisted on conducting a bloody and expensive two-front war in Iraq and Afghanistan while insisting on cutting taxes and deregulating America’s financial systems? Where was the fiscal sanity in that? Why weren’t the same politicians who cavil about the health care bill’s costs saying the same things when America was being bled white financially, politically, and emotionally during the past decade?

It’s all well and good to preach about fiscal responsibility but I have not seen any of the opposition practice those policies.

It is my personal theory that what frightens the bill’s opponents the most is that the Obama health care bill turns the political tables on them. If the new health care bill survives a court challenge and attains the same political untouchable status that Social Security and Medicare now possesses then it places severe constraints on future Republican fiscal practices. If the bill and its new systems take hold and prove to be effective then future Republican congresses and Presidents will be handcuffed politically. They will not be able to casually rape and gut funding for these new programs like they can with other liberal social programs. That means there will be less money available to distribute to conservative sacred cows in the future. In short if the Obama health care plan survives and takes hold then any attempt at destroying it will mean political suicide.

The bills opponents can talk about repeal in the legislature but that nothing but political hot air. Any repeal will require absolute two-third’s majorities in both houses in order to overcome a presidential veto. Right now the G.O.P. doesn’t have the votes and it remains to be seen whether they will be get those votes in the upcoming mid-term elections in November. (For the record the last time the G.O.P. achieved two-thirds majorities in both houses was during the 19th century). They’re only chance is in convincing enough Democrats to defect in both houses of Congress to achieve repeal and that will have to wait until next year when the next Congress goes into session.

Actually conservative invocation of the dreaded “S” word (i.e. socialism) in describing the bill is nothing new. They invoked it when Social Security was established and again when Medicare was created as well. Both times they vowed to overthrow it but failed to do so when the opportunities arose. President Dwight Eisenhower said it best when asked by conservatives in 1953 to overthrow the New Deal policies of the Roosevelt and Truman administrations. He said, “Should any political party attempt to abolish Social Security, unemployment insurance, and eliminate labor laws and farm programs, you would not hear of that party again in our political history.”

If conservatives have any hope of overturning the health care bill then their best avenue of attack is in the courts. In fact conservatives shouldn’t even waste time filing suit in the district or appellate courts but should take their case directly to the U.S. Supreme Court (which you can do legally. You can bypass the lower courts and appeal directly to the Supreme Court if time is of the essence—which it is for the bill’s opponents). In fact I would not be surprised if the Supreme Court decides to take a look at the bill and try to overturn it. One only needs four justices to grant cert, i.e. agree to hear a case. The Supreme Court’s conservative bloc (Justices Roberts, Alito, Scalia, Thomas, and Kennedy) has already shown its willingness to tilt politically with President Obama; which means that there is far greater potential to overturn the health care bill by a Supreme Court ruling than there is by congressional repeal.

Is the health care bill apocalypse now? Is it the end of the world as we know it—and none of us are feeling fine? The answer is no. The bill is nothing more than a good old American compromise—just as the Declaration of Independence was…and the Constitution…and the Compromises of 1820 and 1850 were...and the Civil Rights Act of 1957 as well (please read Robert Caro’s book Lyndon Johnson: Master of the Senate and you will see why).

When I look at what has happened I am reminded of words folk singer Leonard Cohen spoke onstage at the 1970 Isle of Wight festival. Cohen was performing before a crowd of 600,000 and he said words to the effect that, “You’re a nation but you’re still weak. Still have a lot of growing up to do before you can stand on your own two legs as an adult.”

America (when compared with other countries) is still a young nation with a lot of growing pains; a nation still striving to achieve maturity (leaving death threats and smashing windows of legislators who voted for the bill is not mature behavior). We, as a People, still have a lot of growing up to do before we can proclaim ourselves a fully developed nation.

Yet the passage of the Obama health care bill represents a giant leap forward in the growing process and a proud moment in our democracy because the passage of the bill reveals that the democratic process has not been lost; compromise has not been abandoned; the Republic lives; God reigns; and the Constitution still works.

Gilda Di Memmo: Cent Anni

Today marks the centennial of the birth of the late Gilda Di Marcello: the youngest child of Vincenzo Di Marcello and Maria Censoni—and their longest living child; a sister to Frank, Anna, and Sophie; the wife of Frank Di Memmo; mother of seven children: Mary, Rudy, Caesar, Joseph, Frank, Pasquale, and Jean; grandmother to twenty-two grandchildren; great-grandmother to at least forty-seven grandchildren; and a great-great grandmother to at least eleven great-great grandchildren when she died in October 2001.

She was also a beloved aunt to all her nephews and nieces; not only bestowing her love upon them but also to their children and grandchildren.

She was an amazing woman; a window to a world which now seems ancient and mysterious to the computerized techno-gadgetry of today’s Facebook world. She lived in simpler, sterner, more stoical times. She lived in an era which (at least in her eyes) must have possessed a greater clarity than the era we live in today where the truth seems ephemeral; right and wrong becomes mercurial and inter-changeable; and reality dissolves more easily into unreality.

She was a living witness to a tsunami of changes which boggle the imagination. She survived two World Wars and several lesser wars. She saw Lindbergh fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean and Neil Armstrong walk on the moon; she also saw the atomic bomb blow up and the Twin Towers fall down. She saw women’s skirts and necklines go up and down; she saw people’s hair grow longer and shorter; she heard music get jazzier, funkier, louder and more outrageous. She saw TV in black and white; then color; and then in cable.

Through all this she remained herself always: soft-spoken, loving, loyal, eternal, doting, and quietly smiling.

My earliest memory of Gilda came when I was roughly six or seven years old. My parents took me and my brothers to visit her and her husband at their home in Ridley Park, PA. I believe my father was helping pour a slab of concrete in their backyard. I was left inside the house alone with Aunt Gilda. (When I was a little child, I was bewildered by her name. It sounded so weird to me. I remember my six year old brain would say to itself, ‘what’s an Aunt Gilda???’)

I remember in the parlor of the house Aunt Gilda had an organ. I remember being fascinated with that organ because when I used to attend SDA church at Laurel Springs I remember being fascinated with the organ that was used during the services. I always wanted to play with the keyboards but was never allowed to do so. Imagine my joy when Aunt Gilda, seeing my fascination with her organ, allowed me to sit in the chair and play with the keyboards?!?!

And so there I was a giggly, antsy kid goofing about on the keyboard, making Frankenstein and other horror movie noises and laughing hysterically at my own mischief; and all throughout my childish doodling I would look back at her and see her sitting there in a corner easy chair smiling silently and indulgently at me; a most loving and doting smile—as if to suggest that I was neither the first nor the last little child to goof about on her organ?

Gilda was a shy woman—by her own admission in letters she wrote to me while I was doing genealogical research on the Di Marcello, DiBiase, D’Ambrosio, and Di Memmo clans. But there was a spark there; a flame kindled from what George Washington called that inner celestial fire called conscience. She lacked a full-fledged education but she had a native intelligence and an artistic spirit which expressed itself in subtle and wonderful ways. One cannot help but wonder what she would have become if she were growing up in today’s world where young women have greater intellectual and professional opportunities than Gilda did back in the 1920s.

(In my first genealogical book there is a 1927 photograph of Gilda at age 17 posing with her brother Frank and her parents. She was wearing what a young teenage girl was supposed to wear during that era. In 1996 one of her grand-daughters would tell me that particular photo in my book was her favorite one. She told me, shrieking with laughter, “My grandmother the flapper!”)

She married young. She was only eighteen years old when she married Frank Di Memmo. She would devote the rest of her life to matrimony; motherhood; grandmotherhood; great-grandmotherhood; and great-great grandmotherhood—not a simple task.

(Gilda laughingly told me in a letter in the 1990s that it was hard for her to keep track of all the grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren she had). Her progeny seems biblical in its scope. (That’s why in the dedication of my second genealogical book I quote Genesis 15:50 as a tribute to Aunt Gilda).

My relationship with her grew during the 1990s because my genealogical work. I still have her letters and I still savor the memory of the periodic phone calls I made to her during those years.

She was always encouraging, loving, positive, and uplifting. There was never a time when I saw her or spoke to her when she failed to make me feel better about myself. I assume she did that with everyone.

I remember in one letter I sent her I showed her a song I wrote called "I Can’t Find Myself (For Myself)". The song was a typical Matthew DiBiase lyric: introspective, self-deprecating, and a little bit crazy. In her response she sent me one of her lyrics and she gently admonished me that I shouldn’t be so hard on myself in my lyrics—saying, “Remember we are all God’s children and if God is King then that makes you a prince.”

Even as I’m writing this I still chuckle at the sentiment but guess what? It worked. It had the desired effect of making me feel better. That was Gilda. She was always making you feel good; feel more alive; spreading love and watching it flow. When I visited her and we would sit together, she would always reach out and squeeze my hand, showing love and affection.

I remember one family reunion in April 1996. She had come to Central PA from Michigan and everyone came to see her. Aunt Gilda was sitting in the living room and her granddaughter Malissa Richardson was showing Gilda her brand new baby son Travis. While Travis remained cradled in her lap, Gilda kept patting his head and smiling at her newest great-grandchild.

Gilda in her final years struggled with deafness—though one of her grandchildren told me it was a selective deafness. When I saw her during those final years it always amused me that when the conversation bored her she would sit silent and unhearing but when the conversation interested her (or else when someone she loved or cared for or respected dearly was speaking) then she would cup her hand to ear and strain to catch every word that person was saying. I ought to know. She always did that when I was speaking during family conversations. It touched me. It made me feel good that a least one person was listening to what I had to say.

When she died in 2001, I mourned. Not only was our collective looking-glass to the ancient past taken away from us (as well as the last link to our Italian heritage) a dear, dear friend was lost to me; a wonderful transcendent human-being was no more; a loving presence and persona in a world which has now become increasingly ugly, brutal, savage, and cruel was taken from us—and the world was a less beautiful place because of it.

I went to her funeral (there was no way I was going to miss it. I owed it to her). I took off from work to do this. She was buried on a glorious autumnal day alongside her husband. Her memorial service was a glorious requiem to her memory. Whoever choreographed the service and planned it deserves a medal. Her funeral was everything a memorial service should be: her entire family was allowed a chance to make their contributions; all the generations of her descendants left their mark on the service. Gilda died with dignity and was laid to rest with the love, tears, and memories that she richly deserved. As funerals go this one was a fitting end to a magnificent woman.

I would like to end this tribute with a story of my own. In the days between her death and her funeral I wrote a poem in honor of her memory. The words fell into place rather quickly and I had a typescript ready to go when I arrived at the funeral hall. It was my intent to read it if there was an appropriate time to do so.

As it turned out there was ample opportunity for me to read the poem. People were allowed to come up and say their piece about Aunt Gilda. Many did so. I waited. When it seemed like the last person had said their piece and it felt like it was my turn, I fingered my typescript which was folded neatly in the inner pocket of my suit. I grasped it when I heard a little voice inside my head say quite clearly and distinctly, “Leave it be. Everything that needed to be said has been said.”

I didn’t move. I held my piece because the voice was right. Everything good that needed to be said about Gilda DiMemmo had been said. The poem remained in my suit pocket. To this day I do not regret not reading the poem. My inner voice was correct, my words would have been unnecessary.

The life of Gilda Di Memmo lives on in the memories of her descendants. That is as it should be. She was an amazing woman who gave life and light to so many.

May God rest her Soul.

Amen.

Merlin Olsen: Farewell to a Football Hero

You know you’re getting old when your favorite football players—the ones you remember watching on TV Sunday afternoons or Monday nights when you were a kid—start dying on you. The death of former Los Angeles Rams (that goes to show you how old I am, I lived in a time when the Rams were in Los Angeles and not St. Louis) defensive tackle Merlin Olsen is a sad loss to football fans everywhere.

Merlin Olsen was something we’re not used to seeing in today’s sports: a true hero. We live in an age where we’ve become accustomed to seeing great athletes behave badly and un-heroically. Olsen was a true hero. From 1967 to 1976 Olsen (along with Deacon Jones, Lamar Lundy, and Rosey Grier—later to be succeeded by Roger Brown) was a member of the Fearsome Foursome one of the greatest defensive lines in NFL history. Olsen anchored the line thus allowing teammate and fellow Hall-of-Fame member Deacon Jones to do what he did best: sack quarterbacks. Olsen was magnificent in containing the run—leading all Rams players in tackles. His greatness as a defensive lineman was so manifest that football historian Sean Lahman in his book "The Pro Football Historical Abstract" ranked Olsen the third greatest defensive lineman of all time after Bruce Smith and the late Reggie White.

Green Bay Packer legend Jerry Kramer who played offensive guard opposite Olsen in many a tense match-up had this to say about Olsen in his best selling book "Instant Replay", “Merlin [Olsen] is simply a great football player. Merlin’s not as quick as Alex Karras, but he’s stronger. Both of them have great lateral movement. Merlin has tremendous hustle; he never quits. Alex sometimes will ease up if his club is far ahead or far behind, but Merlin never lets up. He’ll run right over you no matter what the score is. When I play against a guy like that there’s a lot of mutual respect, and there’s never any holding or kicking or clipping, just straight, clean, hard football.” Later on in the book when Kramer had to face Olsen in a playoff game Kramer would tell the press, “Merlin Olsen is very big, very strong, has great speed and great agility…gives at least 110 percent on every play, and these are his weak points.”

The fact that an opponent would say such things about Olsen speaks volumes about his overall impact on the game.

Sadly Olsen never played for an NFL champion. The Rams were either losing to the Green Bay Packers or the Minnesota Vikings in the playoffs during those years.

Despite Merlin Olsen never stopped being a great player, a great human being, and a true football hero.

Rest in Peace, Merlin.

Song: Best of Me Now...and the story behind the song

When I've posted poetry and song lyrics in past blog entries, people have told me about how sad or angry some of my words are. They're right. Most of my material is moody, sad, and angry. (I usually write songs and poetry when I feel depressed or upset. If I didn't I probably would have ended up in prison or in my grave).

Anyway this song, I've posted below is a change-of-pace. It shows I can be sexy, romantic, and passionate when I compose.

When you read the lyrics imagine lots of percussion, flamenco guitars, a South American ambience to the music. When you reach the bridge ("Love in the streets...") imagine an over-the-top Brazilian rhythm section going crazy and everyone dancing like crazy.

When you read the last verse imagine a fuzz tone electic guitar soloing in the background.

Oh yes, the last verse which has the line about peppers being hung? I had that lyric in my mind for a long time and was looking for the right song to use it. It comes from my travels to New Mexico where I visited old haciendas in Taos and saw peppers being hung about the hacienda for later use for cooking.

And now here's the song....

Best of Me Now

I lust for the heat of your body
I dance to the beat of your heart
I march down the streets of your memory
I drink because we played the wrong parts
Your flesh is soft and quivering
I taste of the juice of your vine
The ocean breeze leaves you shivering
You’re the cup I fill with my wine
We learn about love from the movies
We learn about life when we die
We learn that war isn’t groovy
We learn about trust when we lie

That’s the best that I’ve got
You got the best of me now
That’s the best that I’ve got
You got the best of me now

Love in the streets
Runs like blood
And it’s warm to the touch
Blood in the sheets
Like rivers of love
And it sweeps us in its rush
Gotta get it on! Gotta get it on! Gotta get it on!

The shot when you pulled my trigger
The wound in my heart that it left
You should’ve read the warning sticker
The path between your legs that it cleft
The meals we prepared were delicious
The peppers we hung became hot
The moments of tenderness were precious
The spices we stirred in the pot

That’s the best that I’ve got
You got the best of me now
That’s the best that I’ve got
You got the best of me now

© 03/10/2008 by Matthew DiBiase

Obama and the Era of Impatience

We live in an era of great impatience. Things that once took a day to get done we now want done in an hour; things that once took a year to get done we now want done in a month; things that once took a decade to achieve we now want done in a year. That impatience fostered by the media, the internet, and both political parties has altered and distorted how we assess events in the American political landscape. The rules have changed and the game has gotten much tougher though definitely not better.

And so it is for President Barack Obama after finishing his first year in office. His post-mortems are already being written and we haven’t even reached the Congressional mid-terms elections yet.

If you take a deep breathe, relax, and look at recent events with a calm, detached eye the President’s situation is not as lost as many would like to see it.

What has gone wrong? The Democrats lost a Senate seat thus taking away their filibuster-proof majority. They still have fifty-nine seats in the Senate for the time being—a substantial number no matter how you slice it or dice it. All the Republicans can do is filibuster but can they roadblock every single initiative that comes from the White House? Would that be politically wise since the American economy and the job market remain in very bad shape and remedial action is still needed? Fiscal restraint is all well and good—when it is actually practiced which it hasn’t been since Dwight Eisenhower was President—but the essential problem still remains how do we get America working again. In reality all the G.O.P. can do is leaven the Obama Administration’s economic policies and put some brakes on the more liberal programs the President has in mind. They cannot stop it unless they gain significant defections from the Democratic ranks.

What about Health Care reform? Despite all the ideological mud wrestling, people forget that President Obama did a much better job in getting Health Care legislation passed than Bill Clinton did. Clinton’s health care initiatives were defeated in Congress. Obama got the House and the Senate to pass health care reform bills. Even though the House and Senate bills were not the same, Obama, with the help of the Democratic leadership, did get the bills passed. Whether those bills will actually provide the proper reforms needed for the American health care system is debatable. But Obama still deserves credit for showing greater political flexibility and patience in allowing Congress time to get the legislation passed. All that remains is for the two bills to be reconciled but with the loss of Ted Kennedy’s Senate seat to the Republicans that reconciliation will have to wait.

Did President Obama go too far in pushing health care and risking his congressional base? I think not. If I’m not mistaken Obama is the first President to have filibuster proof majorities in both houses of Congress since Lyndon Johnson in 1965. Such opportunities to get major domestic legislation passed without gridlock cannot be wasted. President Obama saw the opportunity to tilt the political landscape and did what he could. He would have been a fool not to seize it. No President worth their salt—whether they are liberal or conservative—would dare pass up a political gift from God like that.

Lyndon Johnson once said words to the effect that a President has one year of maximum effectiveness; by the second year, Congress is more concerned about getting re-elected than passing the President’s initiatives; by the third year Congress is waiting to see whether the incumbent President will be re-elected or not.

Obama’s year of maximum effectiveness has ended. Now he faces the stern task of negotiating with a slightly stronger Republican base while seeking to preserve his majority. His reactions are revealing. After the Massachusetts defeat, he revamped his political advisory team; readjusted himself to the changing political winds; and has returned to the campaign trail.

How has Obama performed? Better than Clinton or Carter did in their first years as President. Obama’s domestic programs are much more ambitious and audacious in scope than Clinton’s or Carter’s were. He has proven more adroit in harnessing his Congressional majorities than Carter or Clinton did. He has been more lucky than skillful in the foreign policy sphere. He has dodged some bullets. Whether his luck can hold out remains to be seen?

As for the economic recovery effort, the maxim that time takes time is useful here. FDR’s New Deal didn’t end the Great Depression. America’s entry into World War Two did. What the New Deal did was to provide a wide variety of fiscal safety nets to the American people to keep them afloat until the economy did revive. More recently, it took two years before Ronald Reagan’s tax cuts and fiscal re-structuring turned the American economy around. Until now, the recession of 1981-1982 was one of the worst in American history. President Reagan asked the American people to be patient and to “stay the course”. Although Reagan lost congressional seats to the Democrats in 1982, the American people stayed the course and the economy revived in 1983 and Reagan was re-elected in a landslide.

I feel that President Obama is entitled to the same consideration Reagan received.

It’s only fair.

The Newest Inductee into the Hall of Infamy: Mark McGwire

Of all the disgusting aspects of Mark McGwire’s “confession” that he took steroids as a player, the one that is most disgusting (in my eyes at least) was the moment after he had “broken” the late Roger Maris’ home-run record when he walked over towards the stands and engaged in a group hug with Roger Maris’ widow and her children while the fireworks exploded and the camera flashes went off and the crowd was roaring, cheering, crying, and expending itself in a frenzy because they believed they were witnessing baseball history being made.

But right now? In retrospect, it degenerates into a moment of infamy—an insult to the late Roger Maris’ memory and an even more contemptible insult to the Maris family.

The late Roger Maris suffered greatly to break Babe Ruth’s mark of sixty home runs in a single season. He had to deal with a hyper-aggressive (and soon to become hostile) media blitz; a non-existent media contrived “feud” with teammate Mickey Mantle; the refusal of New York Yankees management to set ground rules for media access for Maris (in McGwire’s case there were definite ground rules in dealing with him); the hostility of certain fans who resented the idea of Maris breaking Ruth’s record (just as there was hostility towards Hank Aaron when he broke Ruth’s career record); and, of course, the bloody asterisk which dogged him to the day he died.

When Maris’ record was “broken” by McGwire we thought at the time that it was done with great respect and great dignity.

Now we know differently. Now, with McGwire’s “confession”, we know that it was all a lie; that McGwire was thumbing his nose not only towards baseball fans everywhere but at the Maris family and the late Roger Maris as well. It’s tragic that when Maris’ record was broken it was done with such callous cruelty and such a blatant, calculated disregard for fair play and honesty.

Roger Maris was a solid baseball player who played the game with great heart and integrity. He was a winner, a three-time World Series champion, and a team player. He deserved better than this. He broke Ruth’s record in a maelstrom of controversy. His record was “broken” in a covert web of lies and deception.

In a sense it’s good he was not alive to see McGwire’s disgusting, shameful, despicable little charade.

When the steroid scandal broke years ago, Roger Maris Junior made a statement to the effect that if there was proof that Mark McGwire was on steroids when he broke his late father’s record that an asterisk should be placed upon the mark or else be disallowed. I concur with Roger Junior’s desire. It will never happen though but I believe in the hearts and minds of millions of baseball fans a symbolic asterisk has already been entered into the record books.

The 2000s: The Wasted Decade

The first decade of the 21st century closes—not with a bang nor even a whimper but with an exhausted, bleary-eyed, subdued gasp for something fresh, something new; something that is truly beautiful, ennobling, or offers the hope of redemption because the 2000s were none of those things.

Usually decade endings years end with a climactic rush of events; a hope of something better for the next decade; a premonition of what is to come. 1969 was like that. So was 1989 and 1999.

This decade offered none of this. Instead we’re backing into the 2010s with a sense of numbness, apprehension, and fear. Actually it reminds me of 1979. 1979 was fraught with economic crises; rising energy costs; political and social malaise; a lack of faith in our leadership; America beleaguered abroad by its ideological and spiritual opponents (remember the Iranian embassy hostage crisis?)

When I look back at this past decade one word keeps punching me in the face: waste. If I had to define the 2000s I would use that word: waste. The 2000s was a wasted decade for America and the world: wasted resources; wasted opportunities for improvement, change, and growth; wasted words; wasted monies; wasted gestures; wasted time; and the most tragic, saddening, devastating waste of all time: beautiful, brave, magnificent, innocent lives lost, taken from us, wasted.

I am struck by the despair this past decade has caused in all walks of not only American life but in every day life around the world. I feel like the high priest in the Bible watching the Temple curtain being torn in two the day Jesus was crucified. I sense an unraveling; a world being undone deliberately or unwittingly by our own devise. We see the damage being done. We express shock, dismay, and concern. We try to make changes as best as we can yet the unraveling, the uncoupling continues and, to paraphrase the poet T.S. Eliot, the people come and go and talk of Michelangelo.

What about me, personally? All I can say about myself, at the end of this decade is that I am still alive. Don’t ask me how or why? But I’m still alive. For me, what interests me about 2010 are the following: how will the American electorate express itself on Election Day 2010. Will it be a repeat of 1994 when the G.O.P. recaptured the House and Senate? If so then who will lead the G.O.P. resurgence? What will the Phillies do in 2010? Can they win a third pennant in a row? The last National League team to win three pennants was the 1944 St. Louis Cardinals. If the Eagles fail to reach the Super Bowl next month what will become of Donovan McNabb?

For me personally, my personal challenges are this: continuing my hockey oral history research, completing my hockey coach articles and converting them into a book worthy of publication; climbing Mt. Katahdin in Maine in October and trying to survive 2010 intact physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Most of all, I want some peace and quiet.

Update

I am suspending my blogging until June next year. I am presently committed to submitting a weekly column titled "Profiles in Excellence" at www.insidehockey.com

The column work will continue until June 12, 2010, whereby I hope to restart my blogging.

Right now, I cannot juggle my weekly writing with my blogging schedule. I wish to devote my time and energy towards the column proper.

Thanks,

Matthew DiBiase

Yankees World Series Win? Who's to Blame?

The Phillies have no reason to be ashamed for losing to the Yankees in six games in the World Series. If anything it’s better that the Phils lost to the Yankees rather than a lesser team that they should have beaten. The fact that the Phillies were able to repeat as National League pennants winners is a testament to the team’s resiliency and desire. A year ago I wrote that the 2008 World Series champions were the greatest Phillies team of all time. Today I reaffirm that sentiment. Considering the problems the Phillies had with their starting pitching in terms of injuries and inefficiency, it’s even more amazing that they won the pennant. A lesser team would have folded.

As for the Yankees their World Series triumph can be seen either as a last hurrah for the older team members who were there between 1996 and 2003 or it heralds a resurrection of the Yankees dynastic dominance. There were unique aspects to this World Series. It marks the first time that a team won a World Series at the start of a new decade and won in the closing year of a decade. (The Yankees won in 2000 and again in 2009). That’s never happened before.

When the Yankees won game three I had a bad feeling that the Phillies would go down in defeat. When the Yankees won game four I became even more convinced because I knew that throughout the entire World Series history of the New York Yankees the Bronx Bombers never blew a 3-1 World Series lead. Their triumph in game six reaffirmed that fact.

There’s another more obscure factor that played heavily in the Yankees favor. I don’t know if some of you realize this but ever since 1973 (when George Steinbrenner bought the Yankees) the Yankees have always won the World Series when there was a Democrat in the White House and lost when there was a Republican as President.

Before you scoff, just look it up. In 1976 the Yankees lost to the Reds (when Gerald Ford was President). In 1977 and 1978 they won (when Jimmy Carter was in office). In 1981 they fell to the Dodgers (when Reagan was in office) but came back to win in 1996, 1998, 1999, and 2000 (when Bill Clinton was President. They lost in 2001 and 2003 when George W. Bush occupied the Oval Office but now in 2009 they have won the World Series while Barack Obama presently inhabits the White House.

For those of you who hate the Yankees and hate it when they win then you can blame the Democrats for all this!

America's National Parks and the Lessons of Advanced Citizenship

The dominant sub-theme of Ken Burns’ documentary series National Parks had to be the role of concerned American citizens who, either individually or collectively, took it upon themselves to take all political, economic, polemical, intellectual, and scientific measures to preserve and protect America’s natural treasures—which over the course of decades and centuries would later become America’s national treasures.

Time and again throughout Burns’ series one saw American citizens: male and female, young and old, rich and poor, eccentric and ordinary, the famous and obscure, outsiders and locals, the politically connected and the socially dispossessed rolling up their sleeves and going to work using extraordinary methods and tactics to maintain those parts of America which define the American experience so that Americans and foreign visitors can understand what makes our country so beautiful.

What Ken Burns’ documentary reaffirmed was what actor Michael Douglas called “advanced citizenship” in the movie American President; behind every great movement and action in American history were ordinary citizens using their collective talents, energies, and resources to make their country (and later on the world) a better place for themselves and their fellow citizens. Without that spirit of advanced citizenship there would have been no American Revolution; no Declaration of Independence or Constitution or Bill of Rights; no movement to grant women the right to vote and, later on, their right to an equal place in society; no movement to grant African-Americans (and other minorities) their full civil rights; no military triumphs in two world wars against militarism and fascism; no eventual triumph over communism. Even now it is advanced citizenship that is working today to keep America safe from another 9/11 type of attack.

Advanced citizenship has nothing to do with liberalism or conservatism. It is simply concerned American citizens who, when faced with a major crisis, resolving not to wring their hands and accept the supposed helplessness or powerlessness of their situation; joining forces with others who share their concerns and, most important of all,

DOING SOMETHING ABOUT IT!

That is what makes America beautiful.